Tea House
by WhiteRosesHaveBlackThorns
Summary: Watson, a med school student, works at a tea shop our favorite up-incoming detective frequents. Add in mutual attraction, some thieves and the ever-present variable of fate, and you've got a story. S/W slash, Shwatsonlock, takes place in canon timeperiod.


_He _was back again.

Him. The great detective. The bane of his existence. And currently the man he was supposed to be serving in this damnable tea house.

Great.

"Your tea."

"Thank you, my dear doctor."

Watson blinked. How did he know he was a medical student? They'd never spoken before, despite him frequenting Watson's workplace.

"How-"

"You have marks on your neck indicating something the likes of a stethoscope lay there not long ago. Not to mention you smell of a hospital lab. Also, your shoes are wet with mud indigenous of the part of London the medical school is in, and judging by your age and the haste with which you arrived at this establishment, you're a student working his way through school. I wish you luck, dear doctor. Now, if you will please leave me to this riveting piece of literature."

Too surprised to be indignant with which in manner he was dismissed (Seriously, 'mud indigenous of London'? Did this guy go around examining the soil in his free time?), he turned and swiftly made his way back inside the shop. Once he regained his composure and reiterated the conversation in his head, he scowled. What an arrogant young man.

But beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.

What would the great Sherlock Holmes be doing in an inconsequential tea house? It was beyond Watson. The whole of London heard how Holmes miraculously triumphed where others had failed in the case of that poor Musgrave fellow. Everyone was talking about it, even the esteemed Scotland Yard. And even if his deductive abilities weren't so well known, the way he pointed out the most miniscule details indicated where Watson had been prior was amazing.

"You'd figure he'd be off somewhere on a grand adventure, not here whiling away his time here," Watson muttered as he searched for something else to brew, someone else to wait upon, someone away from _him_-

"Doctor! I fear I require another cup of tea."

Gritting his teeth in irritation, Watson tried to swallow his pride as he ventured back outside, steaming teapot in hand. There was just something so infuriating about the man and the way Watson was forced to dote on him, be it for monitorial purposes or not.

"Watson," he murmured. He was getting tired of all this doctor business when he was still in school.

"I assume that's your surname. A fine name, if I do say so myself. Well, Doctor Watson, I am Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance," Holmes said cheerily, gripping Watson's free hand in a firm hand shake and almost capsizing the teapot.

"Quite." Turning from the man to escape from his insufferable presence, Watson nearly (_again_) dropped the teapot when he felt that same taut hand on his shoulder, pulling him back with a force almost unbelievable coming from the thin, lithe man exerting it. Watson was cursing everyone he'd ever encountered (his professor who always kept him late, the teahouse owner for assigning him _that_ part of the courtyard, even the London soil that so clearly marked where he'd been, and certainly the despicable man in front of him) when he felt blood rush to his face as Holmes drew him closer by inches. Holmes's other hand flitted across Watson's jaw delicately, coarse- but soft- fingers brushing against his most recent stubble and he felt himself leaning into the detective's hand like a feline would its master. Watson found himself peering into Holmes's warm, brown eyes, and was surprised to find a sort of humanity dwelling in their depths. Just when Watson thought he'd lose control and faint right then and there, Holmes relinquished his hold on him and leaned back in his chair.

"A change of shaving cream is advisable; the one you use now does no justice to the natural formation of collagen in your skin."

Red with embarrassment and frustrated anger, Watson nodded before stumbling backwards back into the teahouse, his eyes ever on Holmes, who had turned back to his newspaper. Clenching his clammy hands to his sides after he'd put up the teapot, Watson swore to get back at that eloquent, callous, alluring, infuriating, absolutely brilliant detective for taking his dignity, and, consequently, his heart.

Watson found himself once again rushing to the nondescript teahouse which was, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere, and at the same time as far away from his school as you could be. As a student he couldn't afford to hail a carriage, so he fled through dilapidated buildings and deserted alleyways to get to his job.

_I wonder if High and Mighty Holmes uses a carriage to get around, _he thought somewhat bitterly. He muttered a curse when his slipper dipped in a sort of indent in the cobblestones of the road, getting them wet from the puddle of rainwater and scuffing them on the stones.

"Cursing does not become a gentleman of your standards, Doctor."

_He wouldn't…_

"Ah. Your shoe. Well, in this case, I will make an exception."

_He did._

"What brings you here, Detective?" Watson spat out harshly, pulling his foot out of the hole and trying not to look at Holmes, who he was sure he caught smiling out of the corner of his eye.

"Simply taking a stroll. It seems fate has predetermined our meeting here. However, I am sorry for the sacrifice of your slipper."

"Inconsequential," Watson muttered. He leaned against the ally wall, never mind his coat, and nursed his stubbed toe. He stubbornly avoided eye contact with Holmes, whose attention was focused on the road.

"My dear Watson, it seems we are out of luck," he said, a bit of excitement leaking into his voice. Watson could just imagine those eyes of his lighting up… and was shook out of his fantasy of the past afternoon when he suddenly was pushed flush against the brick wall of the alley by a familiar warmth.

"What are you _doing_, Holmes?" Watson cried before Holmes muffled his voice by putting his finger on Watson's lips.

"Silence, Watson! We can't risk them even catching a whiff of your new shaving cream, much less hear your voice!"

_Does this guy notice everything?_

"Pray tell me what we're supposed to be hiding from?"

Holmes rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded like 'Needs to know everything.' He looked Watson right in the eye, and Watson felt something in him snap. His senses were consumed by the detective; his smell (a nice, light scent of old parchment and leather), his voice (a smooth, robust baritone), his eyes (deep chestnut with the faintest glimmer of green); Watson noticed for the first time how close they were, and how pleasantly Holmes's body was pressed to his in an attempt to flatten themselves against the alley wall. Not for the first time he wondered how the other man would taste perchance a kiss, and it was all he could do not to lean in and capture Holmes's lips with his own.

"…tson, are you listening?"

He shook his head, narrowly missing banging into Holmes's, trying to clear the fog that'd settled into his mind.

"Sorry, what?"

Holmes pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes in an annoyed sort of manner that looked absolutely adorable to Watson before answering.

"I _said_, whilst I walked the shortest route from my apartment to your tea house I stumbled upon two thieves prowling the streets with their loot in a sack slung over their shoulder. With a deft shot from my revolver-"at this point, he was looking a bit smug, "-the bags tore and their contents fell down to the street. Enraged, the two glared at me, and I'd just gone round the corner when I heard the distinct sound of a switchblade being drawn. I thought I'd lost them, since they have as much intelligence as a mule, but it appears I underestimated their tracking abilities."

Romantic thoughts momentarily forgotten (well, for the time being), Watson felt his throat close in panic and his eyes widen.

"But not to worry! I'm almost _positive _I've lost them this time! You see, they're both right-handed, and as such their first instinct is to look right. Judging from their steps echoing from down the street, when they come upon us we'll be on their left, so by the time they look our way I'll already have my revolver out!"

Watson swallowed a large lump in his throat, not exactly comforted by Holmes's explanation of his plan, especially so as another thought occurred to him.

"Have you ever considered that the echo of their feet might be distorted, and that we are, indeed, on their right?"

"…"

"Holmes!"

"For heaven's sake, be quiet, Watson! They are nearly upon us!"

For once, he took heed of Holmes's warnings and shut his mouth, trying to distract himself from the unintentionally alluring detective by resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes. _How _he managed to get himself stuck in this mess was beyond him…

As the echoes of the felons' footsteps resounded in their ears, Holmes seemed to panic for a moment (he did, indeed, misjudge the direct of the distorted footsteps) before he looked Watson in the eye again and said,

"Forgive me, but try to look as feminine as possible."

"Wh-!"

Before he could utter a single word, Holmes had leant in and pressed his lips to Watson's, tentatively at first, but he soon pressed harder to get a response out of the shell-shocked man. Watson complied, moving his lips in synchronization with his new partner and opening his mouth at Holmes's tongue's gentle probing. Their tongues brushed together deliciously, exploring each other, and Watson felt a wave of heat pass over him and found himself involuntarily arching his back off the wall towards Holmes.

"Horny old bastards," muttered a deep, grating voice somewhere outside the alley. Reality crashed down and reason crept back into Watson's brain like poison ivy, causing him to reluctantly pull back.

"What the hell was that for?" he whispered, out of breath. He noted with smug satisfaction that Holmes was, as well.

"I figured if they peered down this alleyway and only saw my back, they'd figured we were just a random pair fornicating in the alley, and no one of importance to them."

Without noticing it at the time, Watson realized that Holmes had moved them to one of the corners of the alleyway, making only Holmes's back visible when looking from the street. He let out a bark of laughter, half-relief, and half-chagrin at being used as a tool for survival.

"Of course," he muttered, running his hands, which had previously crept to Holmes's hips, through his hair.

"That's not to say I didn't enjoy the kiss," Holmes said quietly, almost like he hoped Watson wouldn't hear. He, of course, did, and looked at Holmes with a hesitantly hopeful look on his face. Holmes chuckled and leaned in for another, shorter, chaste kiss.

"I'll see you tomorrow when your shift starts, Doctor."

Watson couldn't help the grin that spread on his face at that prospect, and said,

"Don't go off thwarting villains and being late, Detective."

"I'll try."

**Author's note:**

**._. I do believe it's been four months since I've last updated… DX I had a very uninspiring summer. And now that school (and consequently, writing class) is back in session, I've been hit with a plethora of new ideas (and a thesaurus)!**

**I've recently picked up a volume of **_**Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes**_**, fell in love with it, fell in love with the idea of Shwatsonlock (go to my profile to read the whole tirade), and wrote this. And it took ages because my mother was watching **_**Lord of the Rings**_** and any self-respecting nerd can't help but glance up at the television screen every once in a while to see Orks getting their asses kicked.**

**Once again I have been plagued by the disease of Bad Ending. It was thought to be incurable, but recent studies have shown that reviews lessen the onslaught and even reverse Bad Ending. So… Review if you want a good ending, I guess?**


End file.
